Maintenance
by Gliblord
Summary: What does the great and mighty djinni of a dungeon do on his or her (or its) off time? Featuring Judal.


**Maintenance**

Nothing generates black rukh quite like a dungeon.

Forget about all the soldiers and slaves cursing the world with their last breath as they get stomped on by inscrutable manticores or what have you; think about all their bereaved loved ones and you've netted yourself some **exponential** growth. Think about it: if they're just war casualties or what have you, then fathers and mothers will latch onto any justification to continue believing their bright young star didn't die in vain—he was staking his life to repel the foreign hordes! No such crutch is at hand with _dungeons._ They die, kersplat, that's it. They didn't combat any "evil," and they didn't inspire anyone. Not even a footnote in the great flow.

Is it any wonder I've taken a liking to them? I used to think they were Yunan's pet eyesores. But from up here, they're all lined up like stalls of a delicious bazaar where all the fruits are ripe for the picking. And much like a bazaar, the more abnormalities the better! Curse the world that _didn't_ sport these beauties!

It's been two or three days since I planted the last one: Shax, in a remote atoll called "Filavalu." It's an experiment. I wanna see what happens in a land without any outside pressures to latch onto as excuses to mine the power for the state. I wanna see a total free-for-all. And hey, if there's a winner, I'll recruit them.

However, they're still in the "cowed by awe" phase. Damn white-in-the-face natives. No one's even touched the threshold yet. I was afraid of this, but maybe I'll have to guide the dumb babies in by hand after all. Why can't people lead themselves off the proper cliffs these days?

You may ask why it is I've elected to stay up here for so long. Doesn't dyeing the clouds become tiresome after a while? To me it's akin to a warm bath that's hard to leave. So much vapor at my disposal to freeze as I like! I wonder if one of these days they'll examine my snowflakes and discover they're all identical.

In any case, it's time I descended. I could conceivably just drop like a brick, but I prefer sliding to this nameless earth in style. Ice chute forming at my feet as I spiral down, the thought occurs to me that everything about me is about _escape_. Escape from this godforsaken world.

"Godforsaken," that is, until _I_ touch down. Sorry, Ill Illah—you're going to have to wait another day. I'll prize some fun out of these wretches yet.

It's decided. They will know my name. The name of **Judal!**

* * *

My name is Shax.

They call me a "djinni." But my name is Shax.

They call this a "dungeon." Artless. Dungeons are dingy things, home to ogres, not I. A dungeon may have secrets, but those are dingy, too.

They call this a "labyrinth." Now that is my home. A labyrinth of magic, that I have crafted with art and intrigue. It is a place worthy of Solomon's discipleship.

Wise Master Solomon entrusted me with a great many secrets. Bastard human.

I can't tell you those secrets, naturally, but I can tell you about my feelings.

Largely? I am bored.

You think me a being of grand significance, with emotions beyond your feeble mortal flutterings? So did I. Despite that, none have yet entered my domain.

I have insecurities, too. All of the nonhumans of Alma Toran pack a proud bite, but we also share an apprehension towards humans that has proven difficult to shake. We "djinn" now are ageless, but the heart never truly forgets a childhood subjugation. The heart never truly forgets being... controlled.

Also, I have been told that beings that look like "storks," such as I, might inspire something other than awe and trepidation. We are a ferocious lot, but seem not so—the perfect combination, if you ask me.

Nevertheless, the humans of the new world remain ignorant. Can they not feel my power? Are they not drawn by it?

So I wile my days maintaining my domain. Perfecting it. This labyrinth is named after me; it is my great hall of wind.

Mine is a labyrinth of manifold traps. I placed them long ago, now. Chambers that force entrants to swap their knowledge, riddle plates that lure the unintelligent to tornado dooms, and artificial fairies that make lies come to life when uttered. Complicated magic, if I may but boast. (The hovering air cannons that convert the corpses of the fallen into pressurized blasts that scream out their true thoughts remain in the design phase.)

None have yet entered my domain.

These traps need maintenance. There are formulas that regulate rukh, but they are not perfect. There can be no lossless transformation of rukh, or so it is said, and the rukh need occasional prodding to remind them of their practical utility. They are the memory of all lives—and as such, they are also homunculi at our service. Splinters of past souls pressed like dwarven slaves to enact our "magic." A bitter arrangement, but that is the magic our father in heaven has granted us.

The wyverns, on the other hand, need a different kind of maintenance. They need love and care. I cannot leave my treasury, but they can enter and exit as they please. They are special creatures that require a special touch. And I need them to hunger for humans, as well. With images projected by rukh, I train their senses to covet their flesh as the ultimate meal. I love my wyverns.

Finally, there is the weekly dusting. My tremendous dread wings are more than suited to the task.

Sometimes, I wish to feel the bars of my cage.

* * *

The main island of Filavalu is formed like a ring. The inhabitants have it that, in the time of their ancestors, there was a smoldering volcano in the center. The great hero Kemakema vanquished its molten terror when he dragged the second moon into its mouth and forced it to spit it back into the sky as the sun, giving the people the gift of daytime. The volcano, embarrassed there was something it could not smoke, sank into the sea and formed into the surrounding islands—thereby explaining their red hue at sunset. They are glowing with anger at the sun.

Absurd. Primitive, stupid natives. Volcanoes don't have feelings, retards! Stop clinging to the past and go drown yourselves.

"That's great and all," I tell the chief's stupid headdress. "But that's no excuse for not entering. This is _my_ tower. It doesn't have a mind of its own."

Hahahahahahahahaha, it totally does. And it looks much more imposing than any lame volcano would have in the center-lake. It's a gorgeous architectural marvel that's just begging to be plundered.

God I'm tired of these slack-jawed goobers. I promised riches, didn't I? Why are you all locked in a circle around your chief? Make a run for it! Claim the treasure for yourself! What a disappointing lack of _initiative. _Brain-dead dolts.

Ahh, but I'm playing god right now, seated atop my impromptu ice shrine. I can't just herd them in by force; I've got to _persuade_ them inside for the maximum despair.

"Tell you what. Those who follow my lead into the dungeon will receive the highest prize of all... my wand."

The chief croaks his reply. "I will go."

Hmm. Now we're getting somewhere. Though I was expecting him to send in a lackey and then sic everyone else on him for the treasure or something.

"Do you need any champions?" I ask.

"No. I will go alone, and see for myself... If I should die, then my daughter will take my place... She is at sea, but she will sense it, and return... Are all agreed?"

"But chief!"

Of course they don't agree, they want the spoils themselves, you old fart.

"But chief, it's too dangerous!"

"He's a foreigner! He's just trying to take your place!"

_Trying? _Don't flatter yourselves. It wouldn't take any effort.

"My time has gone. It is time I handed the staff to the next generation. But don't get me wrong." He grinned. "I don't plan to die today."

Well isn't that rich. He thinks he's people.

"There's nothing to fear. Just follow me inside the dungeon and pick from the horn of plenty!"

In we go.

* * *

The breach between worlds has been perforated. I can feel it.

FINALLY, VISITORS!

Who could it be!? How many? A lone traveler? An army? A stray fly? WHAT!?

No! BE STILL. I cannot let my heart betray me. I am Shax, lordly soul of Shax. If a glory-wreathed king or emperor enters my home, it is only because I have deemed him a king or emperor.

I cannot rush to greet my visitors. I must be patient. I am a power without age.

Who can wield me? What vain weapon or brooch will be my new pit? Which human will seize my heart?

Two souls, the rukh are informing me. Two humans! The minimum required to access my chamber.

Who are these two?

One soul? Didn't you say... What? One has died _already?_

WHAT!?

This can't be! There's nothing in the entrance hall that could instantly kill a man! I made sure of it! The Entryway of Shax is an elegant corridor full of murals hinting at the solutions to the riddles within-

Ah. Of course. One human must have killed the other.

Of course.

The fool can't even open my chamber now.

How disappointing. After all these years, I'm still naive.

* * *

It's been a while since I entered a dungeon. (It's very easy to bypass the no-exit enchantment by flexing a few black rukh at it. They're not built to account for the black stuff!) Normally it's to watch one of my Kou charges earn themselves a household djinni; I do harbor a certain affection for the runts.

Not so Mr. Chief here. I made sure his blood splattered all over the mural to conceal hints for future travelers. It's been frozen and sealed there for all time. He kind of pissed me off. Also, I needed him cursing his fate to generate a nice fluffy nimbus of black for me.

I wonder if your daughter can sense me stabbing your spleen with my wand? Probably not, but if the dumb bitch can, then that'd be a thing of grace.

Hahahahahahahahahahahaha

What was I trying to accomplish again? I forget.

Eh, while I'm here, I might as well tour the place. If it disappoints I'll just shove it back into the bowels of hell.

Stab stab stab stab

Nice job with the murals, though

* * *

The ill-fated murderer will note the murals in the Entryway. They are an intricate depiction of the history of Alma Toran. Note the array of mystic staves. Note the number of twinkles in the borg-girl's eyes. Note the emptiness at the core of the world.

None of them will avail you now, but it might teach you something of the legacy that will thresh and scatter you. You will enter the flow of rukh, but you will not be loved by them.

And if your heart is not moved, then nothing can help your fate.

I wonder. Will he reach my gate and pound futilely, crying to be made king? Or will he—far more likely—make a meal for the wyverns to remember?

Currently I have scurried into one of the vessels in my chamber. Many vases and lamps and glittering swords are strewn about this abandoned light-post. In Alma Toran, it was a magic beacon for ships—now it has been stuck here as decoration. The murderer cannot enter my treasury and behold the magnificent everlasting light-post, but even if he had been able to, would he have thought to inspect the glowing orb itself? Of course, if he's laid claim to another djinni, he'd be able to pinpoint my location without trouble. But such conjecture matters not. As it is I cannot even scold the man before he dies.

"_OPEN SESAME!"_

What? The keyword!? But... that would mean!?

A Magi!?

* * *

"Oi, Shax!"

Ugh, killing the wyverns was a cinch. Finding the damn djinni is always the annoying part. If only he'd taken one of Kouen's metal vessels.

"Just come out already, will ya?"

What a boring ass treasury. This guy must be one of the lower-rent djinn.

"Don't tell me you're scared of a black rukh or two? Pathetic!"

**BOOOOM**

Haha, that usually gets 'em.

"A MAGI THAT WOULD WIELD BLACK RUKH!?"

"It's a hobby of mine."

Dude's some sort of black swan thing? I was right, he _is_ lame. But it's impossible to kill a djinni, any djinni, in its dungeon.

But wait... isn't his invincibility what would make him _fun to fight?_

Nice! Nice nice nice! This is fantastic! Fantastic idea, Judal! A fight with a djinni can't go wrong! I don't have that much fuel without an Al-Thamen sorceror around but I'll make Tweety sweat just the same!

"I did not know a Magi could fall into depravity! What is the meaning of this!?"

Awww, he's worried the Great Flow's already been killed. Poor baby. Being Solomon's pet must be tedious in addition to the nausea.

"I didn't _fall into_ depravity. I was BORN THERE!"

Oh, is my wand conjuring ice spears? Cheeky.

"What is your aim here?"

"I was thinking, hmm, maybe I'll force you to become a vessel for one of my charges, with your whole dungeon as collateral! But now I'm thinking, I just wanna FIGHT!"

"Don't you dare destroy my labyrinth! Do you know the amount of maintenance that I've put into this place!?"

...Is that what he's pissed about? Hahahaha

"Maintenance, huh?" The ice spears clatter. "Doesn't it make you sick? Don't you ever have the urge to just _kick everything over?_"

"That urge is not becoming of the next righteous soveriegn."

"Yeah, that's what Kouen tells me, too. But I think he's just jealous of my hair."

"Kouen?"

"Sometimes he praises me for my impulsiveness, though, so it makes me wanna be less impulsive so that I'm more unpredictable by being less impulsive. He's a clever one! He's gonna rule the world and make everything Kou."

Shax shakes his long-necked head. "What have king candidates come to these days?"

"I don't like that plan, though, if I'm being honest. I don't wanna make everything Kou—I wanna make everything dead! Let's start with your dungeon!"

That's right, I'll lead the Kou to victory, and then kill _them! _That's the plan this week, anyway. I might forget.

* * *

Nothing can damage a dungeon from the outside. Nothing, that is, except a Magi.

Inside, the dungeon lay half in ruins before I was finally able to chase him out. Outside, the tower probably gleamed as pristinely as ever, standing proudly at the center of its glistening moat. That fallen one told me about the tower-portal that was raised.

And he told me he would seal the entryway, out of spite.

He could have destroyed the tower entirely. He could have sunk it back down to inaccessibility. But that wouldn't generate as much darkness.

He has won.

Two hatcheries of wyverns lie stone dead. My carefully laid traps have been rendered irreparable. One of my fairies committed suicide—something I did not know they were capable of.

All I can do is resume my maintenance, and hope there is a proper Magi out there. Not even necessarily so that he may salvage my labyrinth. I just hope that the world isn't as blighted as that bastard human made it seem.

I want to believe there are good humans, frolicking in peace. I want to believe in a gentle, guiding god of progress, and light.

But I don't know what to believe anymore.


End file.
